‘Here it is. I’m afraid it isn’t a very good one. It’s just a snapshot, you see. It was taken when a crowd of us were at the beach.’
Grant took the proffered piece of paper, almost reluctantly.
‘That’s—’ Tad Cullen was beginning, lifting his arm to point.
‘No, wait!’ Grant said, stopping him. ‘Let me see if I—if I recognise anyone.’
There were perhaps a dozen young men in the photograph, which had been taken on the verandah of some beach-house. They were clustered round the steps and draped over the rickety wooden railing in various stages of deshabille. Grant swept a swift glance over their laughing faces and was conscious of a great relief. There was no one there that he had ever—
And then he saw the man on the bottom step.
He was sitting with his feet pushed away from him into the sand, his eyes screwed up against the sun and his chin tilted back a little as if he had been in the act of turning to say something to the men behind. It was just so that his head had been tilted back against the pillow in Compartment B Seven on the morning of the 4th of March.
‘Well?’
‘Is that your friend?’ Grant said, pointing to the man on the bottom step.
‘Yes, that’s Bill. How did you know? Have you met him somewhere, then?’